The Lonely Bow
by AnnieVH
Summary: An old friend dies.


Title: The Lonely Bow  
Author: AnnieVH  
Summary: the violin  
Rating: PG  
Genre: angsty, friendship, fluff  
Characters or Pairing: John, Sherlock, mentions of Moran  
Prompts: new at thegameison_sh  
Warning: death of... prop.  
Spoilers: none  
Disclaimer: don't own, just borrow.

By his empty chin, the bow looked meaningless, but Sherlock didn't seem willing to let go of it. He held it in his right hand, making it slide against his left, as if trying to play a song out of his fingers.

John informed him, "Lestrade said we can go now." Sherlock stopped his song of silence, but made no indication he was going to move from the plastic chair. He tapped the bow on the back of his hand, stroke it, ignored John's pleading look and didn't say anything.

John tried, "Sorry about the Strad, I know you really liked that thing." That only got a scoff as response. An 18th century Stradivarius is not just any "thing", maybe he should show a little more respect to the crushed violin - it had, after all, saved his life and gotten Moran behind bars.

"Right." John said, apologetically, sitting by his side. "I can't really offer to buy you a new one."

"That's fine." He mumbled.

"Sorry, either way. I know it must have been hard-"

"It wasn't a hard decision." He said, firmly.

John didn't know why, but he was surprised at how easy that answer came out. "Yes. Right. Sorry, I didn't mean-"

"I know what you meant." Sherlock deadpanned. He didn't seem offended at the implicit thought that he may like a piece of wood (granted, expensive and rare piece of wood) more than a human being and that choosing between watching John being strangled and smashing his precious Stradivarius on Moran's head to save his life would be Sophie's Choice. Yet, at that moment, Sherlock acted so quickly John could even dare to say he had given the issue no thought at all.

Sherlock sighed, "What is done, is done. I shouldn't get sentimental, I can always ask Mycroft a new one for Christmas."

His tone couldn't be more trivial if he had asked for socks, but John pushed that aside and asked, "He gave you the first one?"

"No. Mother did. I was seven."

"No reason not to get sentimental, then."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Don't be cheesy, John. It's not a childhood toy. I just stored too many things into that violin, that's all." He paused and John tried to make sense of that last sentence as his friend went back to wondering in silence.

John had heard Sherlock play many times during the past few months they had lived together. Always classical music, of course. The one time John tried requesting "Can you play 'I Wanna Hold Your Hand'?" it only granted him a mean glare. It wasn't until John had retrieved safely behind his newspaper that Sherlock went on with his Moonlight Sonata, making every note sound slow and tortuous.

Beethoven was always like that, always that deep sorrow that came out almost as a musical sob. For thinking it was usually Mozart, and that was played with such dedication John couldn't help but think those quick and complex notes were what most resembled the process of thought going inside his head. Whenever Mycroft had made an apparition, Sherlock turned to Bach, and that was loud and aggressive. Vivaldi was cheerful and vigorous. Wagner was furious and untameable. The Opera was quiet and, despite its perfection, John was sure it was Sherlock's way of "going easy on himself" or "playing for fun".

Most times, it was beautiful. Moving. Brilliant. Other times, it was just plain inconvenient. Noisy. Annoying. However, it was never flat. Sherlock could channel so much heart into that violin - all his heart, all his feelings - that you couldn't be indifferent to it. Sherlock, however, would stand impassive for hours as he played, letting the Strad take everything into its strings, *storing* so much inside the song.

And John came to realize, sitting by his side at the Scotland Yard building, watching him ponder quietly to his bow, that maybe it wasn't just an expensive Stradivarius that had been crushed into pieces a few hours ago. Maybe he had crushed something much harder to put back together.

Finally, Sherlock spoke again, "I'm just wondering where it all went. And where will it go now."

"As you said, you can get a new one."

Sherlock gave another sigh, defeated. "I suppose."

"And, 'til then, you know, I'm still in one piece."

Sherlock couldn't bring himself to smile yet, but he still managed to say with some relief, "Glad to know."

*Fim*


End file.
